20 Last Seed, 4E 201, Bleak Falls Barrow
Crash.
A draugr emerged from its elaborate coffin, finding Ivar ready.
Big cave with a single coffin right in the middle, the smith thought. I'd have to be a fool to be caught off my guard.
This draugr seemed more formidable. It advanced quickly, massive blade at the ready, and its eyes glowed with malice. When its first stroke landed on Ivar's shield, the force of it rocked the smith back and numbed his arm.
Then it spoke.
"Fus ro dah!"
Unrelenting force slammed into Ivar, sending him reeling. He nearly lost his balance. His eyes went wide behind his shield.
The draugr attacked viciously, following up its momentary advantage.
A lightning-fast exchange of blows. Ivar took the strokes on his shield, began to press back.
The draugr opened its mouth again.
Ivar prepared himself, a scowl of determination on his features.
"Fus ro dah!"
This time the smith held his ground, braced on his rear leg, and replied with a vicious shield-bash.
For once, the blow connected. Now the draugr gave way.
Strike after strike, like hewing wood. Ivar's arm began to weary. Then the creature made a mistake, its blade out of position.
The smith's sword swept out in a great arc, almost taking the thing's head off. It went down.
Ivar stood for a moment, panting, catching his breath.
Looks like plenty of loot here. But what's that, behind the coffin?
A half-circle wall, some manner of carving on it, a great stylized dragon's head rising above.
Ivar stepped forward, only to be caught up as if in a whirlwind. The light seemed to dim. He fell to his knees, dropped his sword, clenched his forehead in his hand as if trying to squeeze out his own eyes. He did not scream. Not quite.
In all the world, there was nothing but a single Word.
Fus.
"Some more weapons and armor," said Ivar as he arrived at the forge.
"That's good," said Alvor, "but you're starting to overload me. Not that many travelers come through looking for smith-work."
"I don't think that will be a problem. What do you make of this?" Ivar reached into his pack and produced a stone tablet, setting it on the smith's work-table.
Alvor bent close, not touching the stone but examining it intently. "Old work. Very old. Looks almost like a map of Skyrim. The shape is right. Look: the sea here off the north coast, mountains here and here . . ."
"There's an inscription on the back." Ivar carefully turned the stone over.
"Shor's bones!" Alvor shook his head in wonder. "Those look like dragon's runes. I sure can't read them. You'll have to find a loremaster for that."
"No one in Riverwood?"
Alvor barked a sour laugh. "We're honest, hardworking folk here. None of us have time for that sort of learning."
Ivar sighed. "Then I suppose I'll have to go to Whiterun after all."
"Why?" The older smith gave Ivar a sharp glance. "Why should an old carved stone send you there when my own good advice didn't?"
"I'm not sure." Ivar took a deep breath. "Something happened to me down there. Don't think I'll be able to rest easy until I understand what it was. This stone may have something to do with it."
"Go tampering with ancient things, you risk the attention of powers far greater than men. Be glad you're still hale and whole."
"I am." Ivar picked up the stone and replaced it in his pack. "Well, I've another delivery to make, and then it's the inn for me this evening. I need a belly full of mead after the day I've had."
Alvor nodded shrewdly. "Off to Whiterun in the morning?"
"Soon as the sun rises. Thank you for your help, friend." Ivar gripped the older man's arm firmly.
"Don't mention it. We smiths have to stick together."
He met Camilla inside the trading post, her brother busying himself behind the counter so he could pretend not to watch.
"Here it is." Ivar reached into his tunic and produced the Golden Claw. Her fingers brushed his as she took the trinket, and he felt warmth.
"Oh. Thank you." The girl examined the Claw closely. "This means so much to my brother and me."
"I'm glad I could be of help."
She glanced down and then into his eyes, her voice an intimate purr. "I would like to repay you. Take a room at the inn tonight."
"Are you sure about that, lass? I warn you, I'm a follower of Dibella, not Mara."
"I don't care. I'll probably end up marrying some farmer, or an old merchant who can invest in the trading post and make my brother's fortune." She rested a hand on his forearm. "Is it wrong, that I want to spend one night in a hero's arms first?"
"I'm no hero. Just a smith, looking for a place to earn an honest living."
"I know better than that. You're a hero. Or you will be, when you stop denying it."
Divines, save me from the delusions of a naïve girl.
"Well, I have three rules to live by," he said, bending close to murmur in her ear. "Never cheat a patron, never turn your back on an enemy, and never refuse a woman's affection. I'll see you after dark."
Later she was as good as her word, slipping into his room after the common hall had closed for the night. She seemed innocent but eager, not sure what would work but happy to learn. It didn't take long for her to find delight under his hands and his lips. Her mouth was sweet, her skin very soft, and her body warm as a furnace to his touch. Her nails clawed at his back when he finally took his pleasure of her.
He almost regretted it when she slipped away once more, long before dawn. Almost.
Still, with the sunrise came the long road, and Whiterun in the distance.